...And the conversation somehow drifted to 'Al Tishali Oti'. Declared one blogger, "If I was the sabra, I wouldn't post so cryptically'. "If I was the sabra", said another, "I wouldn't use so many Hebrew & Yiddish words." Another blogger chimed in, "If I owned 'Al Tishali Oti', I would be more consistent with colors n content." "I wouldn't be sarcastic to commenters", muttered another, darkly. One blogger added not. "I have nothing to say, for 'To know the sabra is to be the sabra'."

Tuesday, February 28, 2006

I believe in the processed word.I believe in sharing and hearing what is really in the heart, not what is in the air.I believe in real communication and relationships-which can only be done through word procession.

Don't ask me "How are you?" and then run away before you if you hear my answer.Don't offer to help if you will resent me taking you up on the offer.Don't say sorry if you are not.Stop saying things that others mean-start saying things that you mean.

Process your words.

And your hearing.If I ask you what is wrong, dont tell me 'nothing'. You can tell me that you don't want to share it now (but realize, dear fellow, realize that I have processed my words; thus I truly do care and want to know what is wrong and how I can help) but don't answer untruthfully.When I tell you that I am sick, don't smile and say feel better.Don't tell me everything will be ok in the end. I dont care about the end, I care about right now.

Are you interacting with me or is x interacting with x?Are you aware of the meaning and intent of the expressions gushing from your tongue?Have you been trained long enough to know where your arrow will pierce?Have you thought that maybe just maybe I don't think like you?But wait, are you so processed that you belong on the shelf, all wrapped up in plastic?

And I believe in the perfection of truth vs the truth of perfection. Obviously.

Sunday, February 26, 2006

And even as I sit here writing about the beauty and benefit of the unprocessed word, I pause to think. About macaroni and cheese. Stam, that was just to throw ya off balance and prove my belief in the upw (unprocessed word).I rarely think before I speak and definitely not before I write. (not really a shock for those whose paths have collided with mine)What is in my brain, travels downwards onto the keyboard and zehu-there it stays.

I do not appreciate nor enjoy reading or listening to things that have been thought over (and then switched), weighed carefully (then added or subtracted), debated about in the brain, mixed up in the mind, chosen like a choosy Israeli woman standing by the fish stand in the shuk and then oh so delicately (or oh so horrendously) given over.

I do not like the processed word.

Wherein lies the brilliance of the processed word? Websters Dictionary? Online Thesaurus? Your grandma's memoirs? Az mah? I, too, can blacken my fingers flipping through those pages, kill some brain cells clicking on the keyboard and smile smugly when all is copied and pasted.

Do I want to live in the world of the The Giver?Do I want uniformed realities?Do I want to interact with a mrqueenattendanthonorchildsuperiorenemyfriendteacherjunior machine?

Explain, kind human, explain if you will-am I talking to you or to a processed you? Because I have no time for a processed you; no time to dissect, dicepher, disengage and decide what is truth and what you have perfected into what you believe (or what you have been processed to believe) is the truth.

(Of course, we all have it upon ourselves to perfect our innerselves; to purify one's thought, speech and action is the (sometimes not yet recognized) goal of all mankind.That is not the processing I'm ranting about)

Admittedly there is one con to the upw. Only one, but tis a grand one.Sometimes, I write and say things that I later regret, and had I thought about them beforehand I would not have let it out; thus sparing many a hurt feeling.That's the one. The big one.

But then again, there are many who chew over their biting remarks and spit them out regardless.

And I prefer the dizziness from a real strong real kick, over the dizziness of a real strong fake hug.

I believe in the perfection of the truth vs the truth of the perfection.

Thursday, February 23, 2006

I was waiting for my bus this morning, and I was watching all the other busses go by. I noticed (scientist that I am) how the destinations are displayed in front, on the top of the bus. It quietly keeps flashing; first the destination, then the route it takes, destination, route etc. Over and over again, letting the whole Yerushalayim know where it's going and how it will go about it. What a waste of energy and planning, I thought. True, it is quiet and doesn't bother anyone, but what a bother-all the repetition. Let everyone be quiet and stop their doings just for one moment, and then someone can announce on a loudspeaker "Bus Line #__ is heading to _____ using the following route _______". And they only have to say it once, that's all. Now that's a good idea.But wait, that wouldn't quite work because there are a multitude of busses that travel every day, in every way. That would require all the thousands of people to be still for quite a long time, listening to all the announcements. And everyone would be shouting their destination, no one paying attention to the other drivers. (and how can we remember them all, anyhow!?)Hmmm not such a good idea, after all. Egged wins.

So instead of shouting your destination, I learned, and how you are planning on getting there, you can let the world know with a quiet flashing sign. And it won't be irritating anyone who doesn't want to look.

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

so i was talking to her and explaining to her what it's like to finally live without any pressure (social, family, school etc) and how exhilirating it is that i find the need to place pressure on myself and i saw she understood by the wonderful comment she made-she said im finally living organically.

living organically-being yourselfbut letting life take younot adding or subtractingand growing without outside influence

the challenge, you see, is not to simply live organically, but to GROW organically.

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

now, isn't that wonderful?a girl just came into the chabad house with boxes of food (bagels, spreads, vegetables, fruits and muffins). she tells me that it is leftovers from some program they just made. she wants to donate it to poor people and isn't this chabad and don't we do those things? shucks, i think, i can definitely use that right now! (after deciding to hold off the visa for a bit, my stomach and i are forever bickering and it's beginning to take a toll on me). but alas my selfless side jumps in and inquires if they have contacted colel chabad near the kotel yet. she answers in the negative, continuing on to say that she has no time and if she can please just leave the stuff here. wait, what about the hashgacha? all the food is from holy bagel (esty stop drooling, you are ruining the keyboard), in other words mehadrin. ahh the pleading look in her eyes, how can i refuse? a grateful smile, countless blessings and a hurried 'of course you can take as much as you want from it..'now, isnt that wonderful?

Sunday, February 05, 2006

(this is dedicated to every single person who struggled to save Amona)

he loves meand everything he does to and for me is goodbut do i believe ithow can i knowhow can i be so surelet me think this throughhe created mehe certainly wants me to live onhe wants the best for mea fathera father loves his children no matter what may bea child is a part of his fatherand thus, he only will do good for mesometimes i cannot see itobviously,for i am but a simple childi am not the fatheri do not know why i cannot cross the street myselfit seems unfairhe holds back his laughterwhen i complain about early bedtimes, green beans and homeworki cry complain and stamp my feeti throw a shoeand then a chaira smack across my cheekthat is good?a sign of love?he loves me?!?!yes, a sign of lovefor remember-he is my father and i am but a part of himand if he wants the best for himself, how much more so he wants the best for meok so i get a smackand simple (shall i say stupid?) child that i am, i throw another chairthis time at him(ed: don't you realize, child, that you are only hurting yourself?)but i don't seeand i think i know best(sigh) children childrenand then one day i grow upi am no longer a small childa child yes, but not so smalland i look aroundand i see all the fathers with their childrenand i see the small ones cry complain and stamp their feetand i wonder at their impudenceand i laugh (but really i cry) at their stupidityand i silently urge them to hold hands when crossing the street, go to sleep early, eat their vegetables and do their homeworkand more than that, i pray that they thank their fatherthank your fatherhe's doing it for youhes doing it because he knows its best for youyou are part of him, an extensionyou are himdo you really think he would harm himself?

that meansi guessthat its timeto say'thank You, Father'

(i did not say it is easy. perhaps because i am still the small stupid child)

"...Some [rely] upon chariots and some upon horses, but we [rely upon and] invoke the Name of the Lord our God. They bend and fall, but we rise and stand firm. Lord, deliver us; may the King answer us on the day we call"

What is a sabra?
A sabra is a form of cactus, Opuntia ficus-indica, that grows extensively in Israel.
The fruit of the sabra has a thick peel with a sharp spine and is covered in prickly thorns. Once the rough and deterring exterior is peeled away, however, you will reach the contrasting sweet pulp.
Authentic Israelis are often referred to as "sabras" because they tend to be outwardly tough and coarse, but once you get to know them they really are a soft, sweet and sensitive people.